by Cleo Coyle
Whoever put this club together wasn’t just making a metaphor about love and marriage. They were re-creating Anya’s favorite folktale, The Secret Ball—
Twelve princesses wishing to dance all night slip away through a trap door in their bedroom floor, passing through an enchanted grove with trees of silver, gold, and diamonds.
I took a deep breath and moved with anxiety toward the restroom.
While the ball sounded glorious enough, the secret kept by those fairy-tale princesses ended up costing lives; and if I was found out before I found Leila Quinn Reynolds, this little masquerade could very well cost me mine.
SIXTY-THREE
POSH potties were nothing new in this town, but I’d never seen a restroom like this. While the perfumed stalls were as elegant as the Waldorf’s, the adjacent mirrored area looked less like a ladies’ lounge than the communal dressing room of a Fashion Week runway show.
Wingless fairy godmothers in pink smocks worked on a half-dozen female club members who needed stains removed, buttons resewn, or hair demussed. When one of the smocked godmothers gestured for me to take a padded chair in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, I gratefully sat.
Lying low for fifteen minutes was a smart idea. That Gestapo bartender was clearly suspicious of my membership status; and besides, Romeo’s lap dancing had left my hair a fright and my nose in need of serious fairy dusting.
I tried eavesdropping on the multilingual “chatter” around me but didn’t hear more than global anxieties over running stockings and broken nail tips.
“Did I miss something?” Franco buzzed in my ear. “Sounds like you left the club and dropped into a hair salon.”
“I’m reglamming.”
“Clock’s ticking,” he reminded me, but needn’t have bothered.
As my beauty godmother redid my makeup and hot-curled my locks into cover girl smoothness, I spied my target coming through the restroom door.
Catwalking like the lingerie model she once was, Mike Quinn’s ex-wife sashayed her chic figure toward the bathroom stalls.
“Well, well, well,” I whispered, “of all the powder rooms in all the towns, in all the world, it looks like she just walked into mine . . .”
“Guess you were right,” Franco admitted. “Good hunch. And good luck . . .”
Counting the minutes, I waited until Leila’s off-the-bony-shoulder gown glided into the lounge area. Her money green skirt was slit high to show off her brand-new pedicure in designer stiletto sandals, and her auburn locks were tightly slicked into a cheek-lift-worthy twist. Gazing into the mirror, she studied her dominatrix ’do then inspected every line and curve of her delicately sculpted face for the crime of imperfection.
Disdainfully waving off a pink-smocked lady, she began the delicate task of touching up her own expertly applied makeup—until she saw my reflection looming in the glass.
“Good evening,” I said. “I have a few questions . . .”
The woman whipped her head toward me so fast she streaked her entire right cheek with lipstick. Quietly cursing, she clawed for a nearby box of tissues and began furiously swiping off the high-end war paint.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.
“I told you. I need a few questions answered.”
“You’re not a member. I’ll have you thrown out!”
“This is Anya’s key,” I calmly replied. “If you turn me in, I’ll tell them you sold it to me. Then they’ll throw you out, too. Is that what you want?”
Like an overtaxed computer, Leila froze. This was my chance. Grabbing her arm, I yanked the bewildered beauty queen toward a corner of the lounge. The branches of a potted tree gave us cover, its tart lemons hanging down. Rebooting her disdain, Leila crossed her slender arms and glared at me as if she’d sucked on one.
“You have five minutes,” she spat. “What do you want to know?”
“How do you know Anya? Did you meet her through this club?”
“Oh, please. I only recently rejoined. And Anya was too naïve for this place. She wanted out.”
“Why?”
“She thought she’d find her Prince Charming here, but girls from her background don’t get princes, they get sugar daddies. She played the game for a little while, but she got disillusioned and decided to cash in her chips.”
“Until someone did it for her. Who drugged her?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because it was you?”
“Me?! Absolutely not! Why would I drug that poor girl?”
“I’ve had a look around. These women aren’t Girl Scouts. They’re hard rivals for men with money. Maybe Anya and you were after the same sugar daddy.”
“That’s ridiculous for more reasons than I can list.”
“Well, you better list a few because I’m prepared to give you up to the police.”
(Okay, so I was bluffing, but rattling the woman appeared to work.)
“Anya was never my rival,” Leila quickly insisted. “I’m here strictly for Gold while Anya wanted money without matrimony. She was a Diamond girl. Not me. In the circles I travel in, I need a legit husband.”
“Don’t you have one?”
“Had.” Leila glanced away. “Humphrey’s become enamored with some tarty business associate.” She waved her French tips. “Whatever. I’m done with him, too. Unfortunately, the prenuptial agreement he made me sign is a joke.” She quoted me the arrangement. “So I’m in the market for a new match, one that will make life as easy as possible for me and my children.”
“You make it sound like a transaction.”
“Oh, please. When you get down to it, that’s all relationships are.”
I didn’t agree, but I wasn’t here to debate her personal philosophy—except in one matter. “Most of the men in this club appear to be foreign nationals.”
“So?”
“So if you marry one of them, at some point in the future, he may take you and Mike’s children to another country. You can’t do that to him.”
“I’ll do what I must for my needs.”
Her needs? It took some control on my part not to laugh in her face. Leila’s prearranged split settlement left her an annual figure that was twice my salary. Then again “needs” had a flexible definition for a woman who was raised with money and wished to maintain a “respectable address” with a regimen of day spa beauty treatments, lavish vacations, and a closet full of designer togs.
“Like I said, Anya was a Silver and Diamond girl, and I’m here only when I have an invitation for a match date in the Gold Room. Tonight I’m meeting with a very polite older gentleman from Abu Dhabi.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You want Jeremy and Molly to grow up in the Arab Emirates?! Mike would never agree to that!”
“When and if it comes to that, Mike and I will deal with it. Not you. As for Anya, it’s clear enough who drugged her, and you can tell the police that.”
“Oh, really? Then you better tell me first.”
SIXTY-FOUR
“THE football player,” Leila whispered with a self-righteous glare. “That’s who you should be ambushing. Not me.”
“What football player? Give me a name.”
“Dwayne Galloway.”
Even without the listening device in my ear, I could have heard Franco’s “Holy crap!” in that Town Car parked six stories north. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the sports knowledge he did.
“Who exactly is Dwayne Galloway?”
“He’s a former New York Giant, Clare, an ex-running back with two huge Super Bowl rings. He hooked up with Anya here a few months ago. The man was obsessed with her. It didn’t work out, and they broke up. Then he started up with her friend—she goes by Red, I think. Anyway, Galloway never got over Anya. He was practically stalking her at the festival last weekend.”
“Galloway was
there? In Central Park?”
“He was dressed as a knight, just like his cast.”
“Cast?”
“After he left football, Galloway bought a warehouse near the old Giants Stadium and converted it into one of those awful theme restaurants. Jeremy keeps bugging me to go there, but—sorry—not in this lifetime.” She checked her watch. “Okay, I’m done now. My date is waiting.”
She turned to go, but I yanked her back. “Why didn’t you tell the police what you knew?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I pointed to Anya’s key around my neck. “Does it look like I’m kidding? I’m here for answers.”
“Well, you’re not going to like this answer.” Leila leaned close. “My friend Samantha tried to tell the police what was up—”
“You mean Samantha Peel? The festival director? You two are friends?”
“She’s a member here, too—we had the same divorce lawyer. She saw Galloway stalking Anya. Ask her. She gave the police her statement, but they buried it.”
Oh, God, I thought. Leila’s right . . .
I flashed back on that “man in medieval garb” mix-up with Endicott and Plesky on the night they arrested Matt. Or was it a mix-up?
“Don’t you see?” Leila smirked. “Mike’s precious brethren in blue are protecting the Giant because he’s a sports celebrity. He gives half the Mounted Unit moonlighting jobs at that awful Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast; even hands out free family passes to the NYPD brass.” She shook her head. “I shudder to think what Galloway was going to do to Anya in those woods with that date rape drug of his, but the detectives involved are obviously going to look the other way. They’ll probably pin it on some innocent dupe.”
I cringed.
“That’s all I know,” she snapped. “Now I’m going back to the Gold Room. And don’t you dare follow me.”
As Leila moved to the door, I counted to ten then checked in with the man upstairs (the one with the badge and Spy Shop receiver)—
“Did you get all that?”
“Got it.”
“Good. With luck, you might even have a second witness to Galloway’s stalking of Anya.”
“Who?”
“Me. The morning of the festival, I was working at our coffee truck. Two knights in armor stopped by the window. One of them was big enough to be a former football player. I saw him watching Anya’s every move, like he was some kind of predator.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I think so. Can you scare up a photo of Galloway? I haven’t followed football since the Curtain came down.”
“The Iron Curtain?”
“The Pittsburgh Steel Curtain—Mean Joe Greene and his defensive crew.”
“Given Leila’s statement, what worries me now is the Blue Curtain. We need to find out who exactly brought it down to protect Galloway.”
I thought about that. “Listen, I know someone who can help us. When I found Anya’s body, a mounted cop in armor galloped to the scene. He moonlights for Galloway, and he was very upset when he saw what was done to our Sleeping Beauty.”
“Good. Come back up and we’ll talk about our next move.”
“Okay, I’ll just take one last look around.”
“Copy that—and remember, don’t leave the same way you came in. I want to know where that second entrance is located.”
“No sweat.”
Back on the main floor, I checked my watch and scanned the table games. There was still plenty of time left on my trusty transmitter’s charge.
One more roll of the dice might be worth the gamble, I decided; and despite Leila’s little warning, I headed straight for the Gold Room.
SIXTY-FIVE
THE romantic, getting-to-know-you vibe of the Gold Room was the polar opposite of Silver’s perpetual party.
Candlelit tables ringed a gilded fountain, gurgling with a liquid that resembled melted-down bullion. Mosaics with gold-flecked tiles sparkled on the walls beside replicas of Gustav Klimt, the gold leaf master. And along the rear wall, a marble bar, trimmed in gold, was hosting a gold medal wine tasting for several couples.
I spotted Leila’s slender figure rejoining the wine-tasting group. An olive-skinned man in his fifties gallantly stood to welcome her back. But before I could take another step in their direction, a golden-haired hostess approached me with a pointed—
“Good evening.”
“Good evening,” I parroted.
“May I see your invitation?”
“Oh, I’m free tonight,” I said, projecting Leila-like aloofness as I moved away. “I’m only here to mingle . . .”
My voice trailed off in the face of twin white-gloved waiters passing me to the left and right with jaw-dropping confections.
One looked like Bloomsbury Café’s Golden Phoenix Cupcake Plate, an internationally famous dessert served under glass on an Empire Morning Cake Stand. Perched beside it was a small bowl of American Golden Caviar, a salt-free caviar often sweetened with infusions like passion fruit and Armagnac.
The other waiter appeared to be carrying a Golden Opulence Sundae, a signature dessert at New York’s Serendipity restaurant, home of the frozen “haute” chocolate. (Five scoops of ice cream, infused with Madagascar vanilla, were covered in edible gold leaf, drizzled with syrup made from one of the world’s most expensive chocolates and garnished with gold-dipped French Dragées Longuettes direct from Paris. The cost? Like that golden cupcake, around one thousand US dollars.)
“Had a little too much champagne, have we?”
My flight of golden foodie fancy was interrupted by the hostess, who’d popped in front of me again.
“Excuse me?” I said.
She leaned close and lowered her voice. “When a club member reviews your profile and wishes to meet you, you’ll receive an invitation to this room. Until then, you’ll want to mingle in Diamond or Silver. Good evening.” She gestured toward the exit.
Oh, well. Craps on that throw . . .
Back on the main floor, I was about to call it a night when I noticed another familiar face—a furry one.
Strolling around the table games in a tailored evening jacket was Harrison Van Loon, Esquire, the Fairy Tale Fall Committee’s bearded attorney. The man appeared quite comfortable in his fashionably tie-less state. Drink in hand, he stopped every few feet to chat with a male or a female club member.
I shouldn’t have been surprised to see Van Loon here. After all, he was an uptown big shot from a Dutch family whose roots in this burg went back to its earliest immigrants. Rubbing elbows with obscenely wealthy new arrivals was shrewd networking, although I did wonder why he’d risk any connection with an illegal gambling establishment—unless he knew something I didn’t.
Whatever his reasons for being here, I was eager to say hello. He’d helped Matt get free of police custody once. Maybe he’d consider working his legal magic again.
But before I could reach him, his head of salt-and-pepper hair moved off the casino floor and through the LED Diamond archway.
This gave me pause.
Should I be following a man I knew directly into the “mistress meet” room? Or was that meat?
One glimpse through the glittering archway confirmed a plausible reason to enter.
“What are you doing?” asked my earring.
“I’ve decided to investigate the catering.”
“There’s a spread?”
“Oh, yes . . .” (And after spying that costly cupcake and haute chocolate sundae, I was now exceedingly curious about the kitchen.) “The food here could give me a clue to who’s providing the catering, which could give us a connection to the club’s owner.”
“Then let the culinary inspection begin,” Franco declared, “and while you’re at it, grab me a cannoli.”
“I’
ll see what I can do.”
SIXTY-SIX
AS I moved toward the buffet, I couldn’t help applying Franco’s Goldilocks Principle. The Silver Room had been too loud, the Gold too quiet. But this Diamond Room—with its smooth jazz, ballroom dancing, and tempting table of tapas—was shaping up to be just right.
Keeping one eye on Van Loon, I studied the stunning buffet. But the spread gave me little in the way of clues as to who was catering this private party.
The small plates offered tastings of signature menu items found all over this city—from Buddakan’s tender tea-smoked chicken with a scallion and ginger chutney to the 21 Club’s gourmet chicken hash in béchamel. There was Spice Market’s Cilantro Lime Steak; Café Boulud’s Sugar Cane Grilled Shrimp with Peanut Sauce; and Le Bernardin’s Roast Monkfish on Savoy Cabbage with a bacon-butter reduction.
Forget Goldilocks! I felt like Gretel in front of the witch’s house, greedily sampling little plates of Aquavit’s Glazed Salmon with Wasabi Sabayon; Jean-Georges’s Peppery Green Beans; and a creamy-spicy Buffalo Chicken Salad with Gorgonzola dressing—I had no idea who created the latter, but I made a note to copycat it.
After inhaling Babbo’s Mint Love Letters (ravioli filled with pureed peas, ricotta, and fresh mint in a lamb ragout ), I crunched down Babka’s Shrimp Kiev, making sure to tilt back my head (as Matt once taught me) to catch every drop of the delectable herb butter inside.
Finally I was ready to look over the table’s sweeter offerings.
No cannoli for Franco, but there were mini Cronuts à la Dominique Ansel and Chef Thomas Keller’s famous version of the Oreo.
“I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”
Tearing my eyes from the amazing “Inside-Out” Chocolate Cream Coffee Cake (a fluffy cloud of mocha whipped cream tucked between layers of devil’s food), I glanced up to find Harrison Van Loon raking my Fen-hugging curves with the same hungry interest I’d been giving the dessert display.
